Chapter 5

All Dolled Up

Did I tell him?  Of course I didn’t.  To do so would be to confer upon the Universe a sense of justice, of order.  I was going to, I really was, but by the time Don Carlos dropped by my cube the following morning my resolve had dwindled.

“So how is she?” he asked

“Much improved,” I replied truthfully, for the new ‘vette was far and away superior to the older model, at least physically.  Mentally, however…?  “And thank you so much for the tamales, patrón,” I said, handing him back the little cooler he’d left for us.  “That was most thoughtful.”

He accepted my gratitude and the cooler with an airy wave.  “Por nada,” he said expansively.  “But it has been my experience that people always inquire after the health of the sick person, and seldom about the caregiver.  What about you, Rodrigo?  You look tired, mi amigo.”

His face showed the concern of someone who actually cared, rather than the usual perfunctory dance we so often do.  “I’m fine, patrón, just a little sleep deprived,” which was true, for upon finishing off Clara’s tamales Yvette and I hastened to the bedroom, where she leapt upon me and rode my face with such fervency that she came three times in rapid succession; it appeared that in addition to everything else my wife was now multi-orgasmic, or considering her synthetic state, poly-orgasmic.

But it was what happened after the great sex that had changed my mind about telling Don Carlos of the wondrous properties of LP-16/2.  Like most men, I sleep like a rock after getting my nut, which I had numerous times that night, including another aqua-fuck in the pool.  We had never fucked so much, and with such frantic need, as we were thanks to the influence of my polymer (not to mention the metric tonne of red ginseng I was now taking every morning, my poor pecker needing all the help it could get in meeting the outrageous sexual demands being placed upon it).  I had rolled over in the night, my sleep-logged brain dimly registering a faint reddish glow upon my closed eyes.  I opened them to see Yvette’s clock radio, its bright red display informing me of the time – 3:16 AM.  She was gone.  I felt the space in the bed where her wondrous body was supposed to be, and found the bottom sheet cool to the touch, which meant that she hadn’t just gotten up.  I lay there, dimly wondering where she could be, when I heard noises coming from across the room: soft whimpers and gasps of my insatiable bride.

I craned my neck slowly around and found that she was, as she so often seemed to be, standing before her Shaker floor mirror, one hand gently squeezing a heavy boob, the other languidly fingering her sweet twat.  It was the eeriest damn thing, watching her play with herself.  This behavior was by no means new to me; it was something she did regularly for our mutual enjoyment.  But this was vastly different.  She stood there, almost as if she were slow dancing with herself, running her hands over her latex skin, which shone brightly in the light of the half moon that filtered through the sliding glass door to the patio.  She swayed gently, emitting a soft gasp or a giggle, depending on what she did to herself, her eyes open, taking in her shining beauty, loving the image in the mirror – in love with the image in the mirror.

I watched her until she came, cooing and whimpering, her knees slightly bent, as though her orgasm-weakened legs could barely support her.  She shambled back to bed, her breathing husky and deep, and lay down beside me, her latex-encased body warm and soft in the center of the cuddle.  Without preamble she reached around and found my steel-hard cock, and deftly slipped it inside her delicious warmth.  “I hope you enjoyed that, Rod,” she said with a satisfied sigh.  “I hope you won’t mind if I enjoy this rod.”

There was no need for me to reply, and I didn’t.  I simply laid there on my side as my oversexed wife, who could now be officially rated as a world-class nymphomaniac, quietly humped herself upon my overworked johnson until we both came, and then fell back into a blissful sleep.

Or at least she did.  I laid awake a goodish while, my somewhat softened prick still inside her, wondering if and how much I should worry.  Yvette was changing, but it wasn’t necessarily for the worse, was it?  She wanted to have a good time, and she was, and there was certainly no doubt that I was, too.  Should you worry? I asked myself.  A simple enough question, but one for which there appeared to be no simple answer.

*    *    *    *    *    *

My concerns over Yvette’s mental health, however, did not stop us from having fun.  Over the next ten days we visited three Lane Bryants, two Fredericks of Hollywoods, and a Bloomingdales.  It was always a laugh, especially when Yvette grabbed whatever hot salesbabe had exposed her shiny funbags and planted a sloppy wet one on her.  Hell, I didn’t even mind when one of the associates was a guy, whom Yvette swore had cum in his pants when she’d shoved her tongue down his throat.

But despite all the fun my worries remained, for there were indicators, patterns of behavior that could be signs of addictive behavior.  Firstly, summer repertory, something that she loved to do, and had done every year since becoming full time at the U, had been cast by the wayside, for there was no way she could be out among her peers without them happening to notice that she looked like a life-size Barbie doll.  Lunches with friends, nixed.  Dinners out, likewise.  Estate sales, adios amigo.  All the things we loved to do, save for discovering whole new ways giving each other pleasure, had become history.

My outgoing, fun-loving bride had become something of a hermit, leaving the house only when necessary, and looking like the wife of a Bedouin when she did.  But that didn’t mean she spent the totality of her days standing before her mirror stroking her synthetic skin, though I suspected she did this fairly often, at least until she installed mirrored ceiling tiles over the bed and another set above the headboard.  These new decorative touches allowed her an unparalleled view of herself at almost all times during sex, whether with me, or with a plastic, battery-powered lover.

She also spent some of her time experimenting with different pigments, though only when I was at work: stripping off this, trying that, but her finish would always be in tip-top condition upon my arrival home.  It was during this period that the garage was off-limits to me, as she claimed she was working on a top-secret project of her own.  It did irk me, though only slightly, but knowing her artistic capabilities it was sure to be something very special.

I came home one Friday evening, tired and in extreme need of feeling a pair of soft latex lips sliding over my prick.  It had been a rough day; rougher than most, which hadn’t been helped by my showing up late to a project meeting, during which my laptop had gone dead because I’d failed to realize it was low on battery, and then found that I had left my power adapter back at my desk.  It was at that point that I noticed ‘the look’, from some of my co-workers.  That bland expression that says unmistakably, ‘Gee, it was sure nice working with you.’  I had seen it before, though usually directed at others, except of course for that period of time that I was waiting to be sacked, and that too because of my accidental polymer.

I managed to get through the rest of my day without doing too many stupid things, although spilling boiling water on my shoe didn’t exactly make me look like Joe Suave.  Anyone looking at me might think I was suffering from nerves, and they would be right, for today was the day I was going to do it, I would unburden myself of my secret, and let Don Carlos make of it what he would.  But the Fates, it seemed, had other ideas.

He swung by my cube at just past four, which he did most Fridays, as it gave us a chance to talk cars after most of the workforce had gone home.  We chatted it up, and I listened with a tense knot in my gut while he expounded on how the Mako front end on the ’65 Corvette had been responsible for feminizing the American sports car.  It was at that point that I almost lost my nerve, but I mentally said ‘fuck it’ and barreled onward.

“Well, um, speaking of feminizing, patrón, there’s some…”

“Carlos?”  It was Doña Clara’s voice, her musical throaty contralto as easy on the ears as her front end was on the eyes.  She would usually drop by once a month or so, her visits always causing my balls to rumba in my pants, and it was certainly no coincidence that Yvette always got the high hard one on those nights.

“In here, mi dulce,” my employer said, holding out his arm so that she could flow into his embrace.  He kissed her lightly on the cheek as she came to rest against his left side, the pink scoop-necked dress she was almost wearing doing her no harm, but that damn near gave my dick whiplash.

“Hola, Rodrigo,” she said, holding her hand out to me, her giant boobs on the very edge of tumbling out of her top.  I lightly clasped her proffered hand, fearful that any excess movement on my part might cause an avalanche of titflesh.  “Como estas?”

I told her that I was fine, and answered the same when she asked after Yvette, trying manfully not to memorize the outlines of her large nipples as they pressed against the thin fabric of her dress (suffice it to say I failed in this endeavor, but I could sense no hint of embarrassment or anger in either her or her husband).

“So I suppose you two are talking about cars again?” she said with a delightful mock-sigh.

“But of course,” he said, his pencil-thin moustache rising as he gave a slight leer.  “Of course we could talk about women if you prefer...”

She brought her bejeweled left hand up and placed it on her hip, a mocking gesture.  “Sometimes I wonder, Carlos, if you know the difference.”

“Perhaps I don’t, mi amor,” he said with a snorting laugh, “but I always know a good rear end when I see it,” at which point he slapped her on the rump, causing both of her fat tits to jounce upwards, giving me just the briefest flash of a pair of big pink nipples before gravity stole them back.

She quickly turned, wide eyed, an affronted look on her face.  He looked back at her, though cast his gaze downward, obviously mortified by his behavior.  The silence between them carried on just the barest nanosecond past uncomfortable.  She turned to me, her nipples now diamond-hard points straining against the flimsy material that was failing to keep them in check.  “It was nice to see you again, Rodrigo,” she said quietly.  “Please give my best to your lovely Yvette.”  She turned back to her husband, his normally jovial demeanor entirely hidden behind a mask of deepest shame.  “I’ll be in the car, Carlos,” she said, her manner as stiff as her nipples.  “Please don’t delay, we mustn’t keep the Governor waiting.”

He nodded; a quick, almost imperceptible shake of the head that I myself have employed on the few occasions I’ve been in the doghouse.  He straightened up, though didn’t square his shoulders, and sighed.  “My apologies, Rodrigo.  I must go.  We are having dinner with the Governor and his wife.”  He sighed again.  “For what it is worth, amigo, I would much rather have dinner with you.”  And with that he turned and left, and with him went any hopes I had for the future of 16/2.

I thought over what I’d seen on the way home, rush hour traffic being slow enough for me to ponder every facet of the behavior I’d witnessed.  I know I’m not the best judge of people, but that little scene bespoke a dynamic little seen in the modern world.  I cast my memory back over the years, and realized that I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d seen them engage in public displays of affection.  Sure, a kiss here or a squeeze there, usually when alcohol was in the vicinity, but never more than that.  My patrón was the most outgoing, affable, and charming man I’d ever met, but it appeared to me that Doña Clara, despite her massive fake braless breasts, was a prude of the severest sort.

So where does that leave me? I wondered, slipping into the left lane so that I could get around an old fucker whose incessant brake tapping was not helping my mood in the slightest. It was just possible that Don Carlos might accept my polymer for what it was, or at least sell the rights to it to some other company if its uses were too abhorrent to his sensibilities, but I strongly doubted that his big-bosomed prig of a wife would consent to his involvement with such a product.

Because that was the basic problem.  My contract with AZ-TECH, like most in the world of manufacturing, gave my patrón full ownership of whatever came out of our labs.  It was his to produce, sell, or bury if he wanted.  Yvette’s sparkling blue eyes had gone wide when I’d outlined the probable scenarios for her only last evening, and she clutched at her large shining boobs protectively.

“He wouldn’t bury it, Rod, he just couldn’t!  It’s your invention; you have rights!”

“Yvette, I love you, but you’ve spent too much time in the theatre.  Rights in this country are little more than lawyer’s fictions.  Trust me, darling, I’ve read about scores of cases just like this, and it seldom works out for the little guy.  Don Carlos owns 16/2.  It is his to do with what he wishes.”

“But couldn’t you sell it to someone else?  In another country?  Mexico is only…”

“…is only a partner of the Estados Unidos, baby.  I could possibly sell the formula to China, and get arrested by U.S Customs agents in the process, sued into oblivion by AZ-TECH, and then spend the next ten years of my life in a jail cell getting butt-fucked before breakfast by some psychotic toothless redneck.”

“Oh, Roddy, no!” she said, bringing both of her hands up to her mouth in horror.  “Well if you can’t sell it,” she said, her tone desperate, “couldn’t you make it yourself, for our own private use?”

“Sure,” I said expansively, “no trouble at all.  All we’d need is about ten million dollars worth of equipment, an industrial hygienist or two, not to mention an office full of scumbag lawyers to protect us from the D.O.T. and the E.P.A.”

She looked miserable, sitting naked in our bed, her hands that so resembled flesh-colored surgical gloves now resting in her lap.  “There must be a way, Roddy,” she said finally, and I could read the anguish beneath her polymer finish easily enough.  “There has to be.  I love looking like this!  Please don’t make me go back to bare skin!”  She began crying at that point, and I held her in my arms, feeling truly sorry for her as we lay back in our marriage bed, my shiny plastic wife profoundly unhappy at the thought of looking normal again.

And now as I walked up to our front door, I dreaded what would happen upon opening it.  She would probably leap on me and shove her tongue down my throat.  Then she would slip a smooth hand down my pants and begin caressing my stiff johnson, and then she would ask me, her eyes shining in desperate anticipation, about what Don Carlos had said.

But none of those things happened, and they didn’t happen for the sole reason that she wasn’t there.  I found a folded piece of paper on the dining room table, standing tent-like next to a bottle of Tecate, drops of condensation still clinging to the brown glass:

Dear Rod,

I’m sorry that I could not be here when you got home. You will find in the bedroom the thank you present that I promised you.  I know I’ve been a little self-absorbed and secretive lately, and maybe a little crazy, too.  I’m sorry for that, but I think you will agree that the results of my top-secret doings are well worth it.  I love you more than I can say, and hope your gift demonstrates that to your satisfaction.

Y

It was like putting my foot on a step that wasn’t there.  Not home?  Where the hell could she be?  She was fucking shiny, for Christ’s sake!  I didn’t like the idea of her being out and about in the evening, unescorted, an animated mannequin shrouded in a fake burqa.  But my inner voice, that part of me that almost always tells me what I want to hear, spoke up: She’s a big girl, dude, it said.  You’ve had a shit day, so quit worrying for the sake of worrying and go see what she’s left you.

My inner voice was right.  I opened the beer and made my way down the hall to the bedroom, my curiosity piqued, but it was on my way there that I found something that aroused it even more – the door to the garage was cracked.  Feeling slightly naughty, I pushed it open a bit wider.  It opened noiselessly, with no answering shriek from my playful bride, who I thought might be hiding out in here, her new sanctum santorum.

I flipped the lights on and was instantly sorry that I had done so, for there is nothing so depressing as a garage given over to womanly pursuits.  Oh, all of my tools were still in here, as was my boombox, which provided musical accompaniment while I performed oil changes and other basic maintenance, but there was now an artistic feel to the place, rather than the manly, mechanical vibe that is only proper.

Yvette’s car was gone, but missing also were the scents of motor oil and grease, replaced by the combined smells of cocoa butter, vinegar, and lemon juice, not to mention her perfume and the lingering odor of latex.  Her stall, which was quite definitely encroaching onto Justine’s territory, was now packed with gear.  The antique bureau was still in here, now piled with everything imaginable for her maintenance and upkeep: moisturizers, balms, creams, waxes, as well as several bottles of Nair (razor blades being rather harmful to a girl’s finish).  There was also my mini-fridge, which I discovered had been emptied of my beer and was now filled to bursting with lemon juice and Slim-Fast, the latter probably necessitated by her inability to go out running in the morning.  And in the center of everything else was something quite new – a hand built paint frame.  It looked like quite the nifty gadget, constructed of aluminum, with a vertical channel that would allow her to airbrush her back, or any other hard to reach spots, by use of a remote toggle, with zero help from me.

And above it all were hung Christmas lights – bright white C-9’s to impart a soft, natural light that would accentuate her shininess and allow her to see herself as she apparently wished, which I thought should be easy considering the many full-length mirrors she’d put up.

And lastly, with a feeling of guilt that struck me to my core, there was Justine; covered, hidden away like a shameful object, and that hurt me more than I could bear, for since the day I’d brought 16/2 into our lives I had not driven her once.  I had neglected her.

The more I looked about the place, the more I found I didn’t want to be in here, and that was a most distressing thought, for this had been my space, before I’d ever met her.  In creating the new model ‘vette it seemed that I had lost something along the way, and I began wondering if the price wasn’t too high.

I exited the garage, feeling another stab of guilt that I was glad to be out of there.  Leaning against the closed door, I took a long pull on my beer.  Just down the hall Yvette’s thank you present awaited me, but did I really want to be thanked right now?  Considering the wonderfulness of my day and what I’d just seen, I began thinking that getting good and drunk might be the wiser course.  But her note had said that what I would find in the bedroom would be well worth it, and since she had gone to so much trouble I figured I might as well take a look-see.  I turned on my heel and went to the bedroom to find out what that could possibly be.

It was a doll.

“Jesus God, Yvette,” I whispered, “what have you done?”  I stood in the open doorway, dimly registering the fact that I was breathing, feeling the welcome chill of the beer bottle clenched in my fingers, and looked upon my wife’s handiwork.  Sitting upon the bed, not quite dressed in a French Maid’s outfit, was a life-size love doll – a life-size Asian love doll.

I somehow moved my feet forward until I reached the bed.  The doll sat there, perfectly immobile, staring off into the corner of the room.  There was a note lying upon the white apron that barely covered its shiny pubes:

This is your new love doll, Yumi, the most advanced sex toy in the world.  She has auto-locking joints, a blink mechanism, blowjob mouth, and a very special feature I think you’ll enjoy.  Please don’t use her as you would use me, as Yumi is not real and therefore exists solely for your pleasure.  Be selfish and have fun with her; use your imagination!  Do be gentle with her, though, for she is a one-of-a-kind artifact (although she needn’t be, if you catch my drift), and will give you many years of trouble-free service.

Y

I read the note again, my fingers trembling.  The object on the bed, created solely for my pleasure, was beyond beautiful, beyond desirable, and beyond anything that I could have imagined.  I walked around the bed slowly, deliberately, taking her in from every angle, my heart pumping madly, my dick hard enough to cut diamonds.  Yvette had outdone herself, her craftsmanship and attention to detail breathtaking.

Yumi was Japanese, her skin tone slightly darker than Yvette’s, with long black hair with purple highlights, and deep black eyes with perfectly crafted epicanthic folds.  Her skin was shiny, like a doll’s, and her French Maid outfit, complete with arm-length glovelets, fishnet thigh-highs, white collar, frilly headpiece, and the cute little apron, served to complete the illusion that she was the perfect anime sex toy.  She stared at the opposite wall, her gaze never wavering, her dusky, plum-colored lips tacitly saying, ‘Me love you long time.’

“My God, Yvette,” I said, still whispering, awestruck, “how did you…?” 

Of course she didn’t answer, she was much too good an actress to be thrown so easily, and I was glad she hadn’t spoken because the illusion was so perfect; if it hadn’t been for the big boobs I would have sworn it wasn’t her.  Reminding myself to breathe, I looked again at the note that had come with Yumi: Be selfish and have fun with her; use your imagination, and looked again at my perfectly crafted love doll.  I looked back at the note: ‘Be selfish…’

I jumped on her.

Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t look like my wife that made me behave with such abandon, but I treated her as she had requested: sticking my dick between her big, rubbery juggs, her mouth opened so that I could feel that vacuum action whenever it made contact with her sucking lips, spanking her pert bottom for having failed to call me ‘Sir’, and jerking off with her lustrous, glossy hair wrapped around my shaft.  I gasped audibly as my rampant cock slipped inside Yumi’s ass, its passage eased by the liberal amount of lube Yvette had thoughtfully administered before she’d ‘left’.  I came in mere moments, my angst over having lost my garage quickly assuaged by the buttfucking of my new sex toy.

I cleaned Yumi up with some scented wipes that my bride had thoughtfully left for us, and got down to the business of some serious depravity, exploring the limits of her auto-lock joints and putting that blowjob mouth to the test (an innovation that far outstrips electricity, to be sure), but it was when I propped her up against the headboard so that I could do some plain, old-fashioned, vanilla sex-doll fucking that I got the surprise of my life.

Her pussy was fake.

“Oh my fucking God,” I said dumbly.  “Yvette?”

She didn’t answer, but sat there, resolutely still, looking somewhere in the vicinity of my shoulder, her mouth glazed by my second load of jizz of the evening.  I propped her knees up much like a gynecologist would, to examine what the fuck she had done to her twat.  Now I am not the world’s foremost authority on inflatable love partners, but their vinyl vuhjayjays usually bear little resemblance to actual pussy, sometimes looking like little more than a deflated balloon.  Not so Yumi.  Yvette, with a skill born of prosthetic makeup training, had apparently been using some of her free time to craft an artificial cooter for her Asian alter ego.  The pussy that I had loved so much and known so well was now covered by an anatomically correct latex reproduction, and was every bit as shiny as the rest of her.

If Yvette had thought that this little touch would drive me over the top she was absolutely right.  Despite having cum twice in the last hour I lost no time in slapping some KY jelly on my overworked johnson and selfishly ramming it into my luscious love doll, receiving yet another shock when I entered her – she was fake inside as well!

“Ohhh,” I moaned as I bottomed out inside her, the strange feelings surrounding my prick quickly driving me to the very edge, how is this possible?  As I pumped madly away, my hips on autopilot, I tried to crack the mystery of Yumi’s cunt.  Now, I know Yvette inside and out, almost as well as her gynecologist, I like to think, but the sensations being afforded by my sex toy’s fake pussy were altogether different, as though I were fucking a real latex doll, as though her vagina had been coated with LP_16/2!

But that’s impossible! the rational part of my brain cried weakly, as my hips continued slamming into the love doll beneath me.  16/2 cannot adhere to the mucus membranes!  I continued pumping away, my mind doggedly trying to solve the riddle of Yumi’s artificial gash while my cock continued its own penetrative and probing exploration.  How can she have done it, I wondered, the feeling of warm latex gripping my dick intoxicating.  But it was at this point that my investigation became moot because I sprayed like a fire hose inside Yumi’s miraculous cunt.

I lay atop her, gasping as though I had just run a marathon, the human-looking love doll beneath me silent and inert.  I rolled off of her once sentience had reasserted itself, and laid on my side next to her, gazing at her artificially crafted beauty and caressing a heavy latex dug, thinking about the past and present, trying to remember if I’d ever enjoyed such fantastic sex, and wondering if the future could possibly hold better.

“Wiggle room.”

She came awake as I expected she would, upon hearing our safe word.  She brought her lithe arms up and stretched them, the same for her impossibly long legs.  Her face turned toward me, her beaming smile proof that I hadn’t crossed any lines.

“That was fun!”

I just shook my head stupidly in amazement at the shiny anime figure lying next to me.  “Yvette,” I said, my voice a dry rasp, “you are…”

“What? she asked, her voice a purr.  “What am I?”

“You’re fucking Japanese.”

She laughed, kicking her hose-clad legs in the air in delight.  She turned on her side to face me, her smile mischievous, her eyes alight with mirth; eyes so very different than those of the woman I fell in love with.  “You rike?”

“Oh, I rike very much.  Jesus, ‘vette, how did you do all of this?”

“I think I did it very well.  But if you want answers it’ll cost you.  One beer, in advance.  Pay up, sailor.”

*    *    *    *    *    *

I returned to our bedroom a few minutes later, cold beers in hand, to find my bride, my still Japanese bride, standing before her floor mirror, having removed all traces of my bodily fluids from her face, and was now buffing her lips and chin to a high shine with the aid of the chamois I normally used on Justine.  I held her beer out to her.  She took it, teasing me by dragging the long neck bottle up along one of her big boobs, the condensation wetting it, but having zero effect upon the permanently erect nipple as it slid over it.  “To you, my darling doll,” I said, which was pushing the boundaries of my eloquence, considering that all the blood in my brain had rushed right back down to my dick, where it seemed to be spending most of its time nowadays.

She smiled and drank, moving like the woman I married yet at the same time looking nothing like her.  It was bizarre, but now that I wasn’t busy fucking the stuffing out of her I was better able to appreciate the finer points of her transformation.  She really did look Japanese, or at least like a Japanese mannequin.  If it weren’t for the fact that she was shiny and that her polymer skin didn’t wrinkle or flex like normal skin, she really could go out among other people without fear of discovery.

But she was looking at me, and the look did not belong to Yumi but rather to the flesh and blood woman I had married.  “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said, sighing heavily as I thumbed one of her fat nipples distractedly.  “I was going to, but…” I trailed off.  “How did you know?”

“You didn’t phone.  I know you all too well, my loving man. If you’d told him and he’d said yes, you would have wasted no time in calling me and telling me to put on my slinkiest and sexiest dress, so that you could drive me around and show me off to as many people as possible.  I love you, Roddy, but you do like to impress people with your toys.”

Her tone was light, yet a little wistful, for I knew how much she herself would have liked to be shown off, to be driven around in the desert night and have people ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at her shining beauty.  To have men think of what they had at home and feel dissatisfied and envious.  “But how did you know that I hadn’t been sacked?” I said, amazed at her deductive prowess.  “I wouldn’t have called you to deliver that message.”

She smiled.  “If you’d told him and he’d fired you, you’d have been depressed, and hardly able to stretch out Yumi’s ass like a sex-deprived samurai.  ‘Elementary’, my dear husband.”

I gave a snorting laugh, feeling a little wistful myself at how poorly things had gone with Don Carlos.  I’m sorry, my sweet, I did try, but…”

She put a hand up to my lips, shushing me.  “Not now, Roddy.  I’m not in the mood to hear bad news.  Let’s just have fun tonight, and worry about unpleasant things later, okay?”

“Okay, Yumi,” I said, polishing off half my beer at a draught, relieved that she wasn’t screaming at me for being a total puss.  “But I believe you still owe me an explanation regarding certain aspects of your, um, anatomy.  How did you do it, doll-baby?”

She laughed at my directness, and I missed that her eyes no longer crinkled up when she did so.  “Very well, Mister Curious,” she said, her tone mischievous, “come with me, then,” at which point she turned and left the room, me following closely behind due to the fact that she had grabbed my prick and was leading me along by it.  We ended up in the garage, where I found myself not quite so depressed as I had been a few hours earlier.  She marched me over to the far end of my workbench, where sat a little something I hadn’t noticed during my initial scouting trip through my former space, it being easy to miss what with it having a towel draped over it.  She removed it with a flourish.  “Tada!”

I opened my eyes wide at what she revealed, and swallowed the rest of my beer in order to keep myself steady.  “Oh, my lord, ‘vette,” I said, almost gasping.  “You did this?”

“I did,” she said proudly.  “You may touch it, if you wish.”

With a shaking hand I did so, as I had done thousands of times before, but this time it was different, seeing as how it wasn’t nestled between her smooth thighs, but rather cast in a pinkish resin; a perfect three-dimensional reproduction of my wife’s pussy.  I traced my fingers gently up and down the imitation vaginal lips, amazed at how real they looked despite how hard they felt, my prick beginning to twitch a little, apparently fooled by the simulation.  Yvette, a pleased smile upon her face, turned the model sideways, so that I could appreciate the depths of her.  “Do you like it?” she asked impishly.

“Have-haven’t I always?” I stammered.

“Oh, Roddy, you’re so funny when you’re shocked.  Here, look.”  She placed both of her hands at the base of the model and separated it in two, thus giving me a cross-sectional view of her hoo-hah.

I shook my head in amazement at the lengths she had gone to spice up a relationship that was already hotter than a fucking habañero.  “And you made the artificial pussy inside you from this?”

“Well, not exactly,” she replied, enjoying showing off her technical skills.  Have a look.”  She opened the drawer of my workbench and my amazement turned to awe.  Inside were various positive and negative latex impressions of her pussy made from the master on the bench, as well as a duplicate of my very own John Thomas, one she’d made on my birthday a year ago.  She reached into the drawer and pulled it out, along with one of her many replica pussies, this one having been marked with the number two.  It was incredible to look at; it was so thin and light, almost transparent, apparently having been made from a single sprayed-on layer of my polymer.

“You see, while all of this might look easy (it sure as hell didn’t to me), it was actually quite problematic.  I was originally going to use a female condom, but they can sometimes pull back out.”  And here she demonstrated by actually inserting the fake dick into the fake pussy, which caused my pecker to perk up completely, waiting for its turn, perhaps.

“And that was when it hit me,” she continued.  “If I made a cast of my own pussy, coated it with 16/2, and inserted it inside of me, then you could fuck that day and night, and enjoy the lovely feeling that your polymer provides.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, ‘vette,” I said, her ingenuity leaving me practically dumbfounded.

“But that didn’t work either.”

“It didn’t?”

“Nope.  Here, feel for yourself.”  And so saying she slipped the artificial cunt off of the fake dick and brought it down over the head of my straining dick.  My length slipped inside its pre-lubricated confines easily, and I moaned as she began jerking me off with it.  “Well, what do you think?”

“It-it feels pretty damn good to me, baby,” I said my fingers gripping the empty beer bottle tightly.

“But does it feel as good as the pussy you fucked fifteen minutes ago?”

“Well, um…no.  I guess it doesn’t, exactly.”  And this was the truth, because as good as it felt – and it did feel good – it wasn’t quite the same.  It felt a little loose and unresponsive.

“Yes, I thought that would be the case when I tested it out.  Now, here, try this one on for size.”  She removed the false snatch from my pulsing tool and quickly slid another one on in its place, this one having a ‘3’ written on it.  “How’s that?”

“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, as my cock disappeared into my ‘vette’s prototype pussy.  The difference was like night and day.  As she stroked back and forth it literally sucked on my dick, every curve and nuance of that fake cunt gripping and loving every last millimeter of my excited prick.  It felt exactly like her pussy, yet at the same time feeling decidedly unreal.  “Holy God, ‘vette,” I said, my voice weak and raspy, one hand gripping the workbench while she continued mercilessly stroking me off with her fantastic fake quim, “how…how…?”

“Nice, isn’t it?” she replied, the low throaty laugh coming from the Japanese geisha both familiar and strange.  “The difference is not due to my pussy, my love, but rather your cock.”  She raised my replica dick to her lips and began sucking the head lightly, then lowered it slowly down her heaving body and slipped it into her own still fake love hole.  “Mmm, yes, that does feel wonderful.  You see,” she continued orating, all the while ministering to our genuine genitals with her handmade copies, “I had my own epiphany, Rod.  Once testing showed that my pussy alone wasn’t perfect for you, I knew that I had to make it specifically for you.”

She went on to explain how she had taken the model of my prick, and recast it while inserted in the model of her pussy, thus creating an artificial sex organ that was tailor-made to my cock – the most personal sex toy ever made.  Of course I didn’t get every word of what she said, what with the two of us moaning and gasping and hissing as she brought us off.  I pounded the workbench with my forearm as I shot my wad into the prototype poozle, my hips bucking and my calves shaking as I came.

She slipped the fake dick from her own perfect pussy and tossed it casually onto the bench, and then slowly and gently removed the artificial pussy from my very real and quite overused prick.  The naked geisha kissed me sweetly, and held me as I stood there, her body warm and soft, as I came down from the towering orgasm she’d given me, the workbench helping to support my dead weight.  “Jesus God, ‘vette,” I said finally, once my brain remembered where my speech center was located, “you…you should win a Nobel Prize.”

“Oh, no, my loving husband,” she said, nuzzling my shoulder, her voice quite serious, “it is you who deserve the prize, because how you feel right this moment, Roddy, that is how I feel, all the time.  Would you like to stay there, right there, every minute of every day, if you could?”

“Jesus Christ, ‘vette, if I did that, I’d never get anything done.”

“Don’t I know it, stud.  But if you could, would you?”

“I think you already know the answer to that question, my sweet,” I said, absently wondering if my balls could possibly stand the strain of such a life.  “But what about you?  How can sex be fulfilling for you if you have a fake pussy inside your real one?”

She actually snorted with silent laughter at my question, and pulled away slightly, giving me the opportunity to look into her lovely almond eyes.  “Oh, my poor man, you really have no idea, do you?  Roddy, I came five times.”

My eyes widened in astonishment.  “Five tim…?” I started.

“Oh yes, my love, five.  I’m surprised you didn’t notice, but then you were pretty distracted.”  She sighed a long, pensive, and satisfied sigh.  “You see, the thin polymer layer covering my pussy tends to stretch and shift and wiggle about when you make contact with it.  When your cock slides into me, it pulls on the prosthetic, stretching it over my clit in and rubbing it in a way that skin never can.  But it isn’t just that.”  And here she bit her lip and lowered her gaze a bit, so that she seemed to be looking at my chin.  “Roddy,” she sighed again, her tone serious, more serious in fact, than I could ever remember, “you have no idea what it feels like to be treated as an object, as something designed for pleasure.”

“Yvette…?”

“Please let me finish.  I know what women have been saying for the last hundred years, about rights and legal standing, of being treated as chattel and all of that, but I also know that the sex I had with you tonight is the best sex I’ve ever had!”  She put a hand up to my lips, as though to still any incipient protest.  “Before you coated me with latex, I loved sex.  But now I need sex.  It’s all I want to do, and I don’t feel wrong for feeling that way.  I am an object now, an object of pleasure, made for pleasure, for your pleasure, Roddy.”  And as if to punctuate her words she raised the tubular model of her pussy up to her lips and inserted her tongue into its flexible folds, frenching her own cunt, squeezing the length of it so that my scum flowed downward and into her mouth, a self-inflicted creampie.

I watched her, stupefied, as she polished off my jizz and washed it down with the rest of her beer.  She then grabbed hold of my head and thrust her tongue down my throat, whimpering as she kissed me hungrily, pulling me tight into her, as ready to consume me as she had my used semen.

“Oh, Roddy, in so many ways you are just the most delicious man,” she said once she’d stopped chewing on my tongue.  “And speaking of delicious, I ordered in some lasagne, and seeing as how I’ve already eaten, why don’t you go and nuke yourself a little dinner while I see to my, um, upkeep?”

“Yvette…?” I said, a little startled by this abrupt dismissal.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, grimacing slightly and shifting her hips, her knees pressed tight together, “It’s just that, well…I forgot to punch a hole in my prosthetic pussy, and I really need to pee!”

To Be Continued…

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